


The Long Way 'Round

by MissLee



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Childhood, Depression, Drugs, Gen, Hopeful Ending, Kid Sherlock, Loneliness, M/M, Medication, Melancholy, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, Psychologists & Psychiatrists, Sadness, School, Teen Sherlock, Victor Trevor Being an Asshole, sorta - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-17
Updated: 2018-01-17
Packaged: 2019-03-06 03:55:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13402938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissLee/pseuds/MissLee
Summary: Sherlock has his problems, they've known that since he was little. But he's lovable in his own way and he will get better; just might be a bit of a long road to get there.”There was once a boy called William.William was... odd. Not particularly well-mannered and therefore not particularly well-liked either. But in his own special way he could be seen as endearing.”





	The Long Way 'Round

**Author's Note:**

> LOOK WHO GOT THEIR HEAD OUT OF THEIR ARSE!!!!! 
> 
> Seriously though, it seems at the moment I can only write when I'm less than happy so here enjoy my sadness xd (Never thought I'd be glad to be upset for a change but here we are, and I'm alright now I've written.)
> 
> This is unintentionally the longest thing I've ever written so I'm lowkey ecstatic.
> 
> Enjoy! (And please tell me if you spot any typos)

* * *

There was once a boy called William.

William was... odd. Not particularly well-mannered and therefore not particularly well-liked either. But in his own special way he could be seen as endearing.

While his childhood was privileged, William wasn’t widely accepted by, well, anyone really. The other children at his school thought he was weird, what with his fascination with collecting bugs in little jars and watching them for hours on end and the fact that he carried a little magnifying glass with him everywhere he went. William didn’t smile very often even though he was happy and sometimes he would speak in a monotone that sounded robotic to the others. When they all laughed at a joke William would simply look at them and blink as if he couldn’t work out what was funny. He felt sad when they laughed because he thought they were laughing at him so he lashed out and called them names seemingly out of the blue. Their teachers tried to mediate, they would say that they just had to be patient with William because he was a little different. Different in that, unlike everyone else, William didn’t know that it wasn’t polite to talk about his experiments at lunch or shout out the answers to questions that the teachers hadn’t even finished asking yet. You see William was also brighter than the rest of his classmates, even from a very young age he outshone the rest of them as the smartest. Often, teachers didn’t know what to do with him.

For a long time, it wasn’t only strangers who didn’t know what to make of him; his family also weren’t terribly well-equipped to handle little William. Their other son, Mycroft, was perfect in nearly every way. Perfect grades, perfect manners, never got too worked up, never got distracted and stared off aimlessly into space, never once brought home a dead bird and asked if he could keep it to study and dissect as William had once done. A model child if ever there was one. Not so fond of sports but Mr and Mrs Holmes supposed you couldn’t have it all.

One day, Mrs Holmes decided it was time for a visit to the psychiatrist.

William kicked and screamed the whole trip, crying about there being nothing wrong with him as Mr Holmes tried desperately to calm him down, explaining that all they wanted was to help him. And really they did; all his parents wanted was for him to be happy but they were so out of their depth that they didn’t know where to turn. So, two months after his sixth birthday, they went to see a nice lady called Doctor Nasreen Kareemah, (she was alright with William just calling her Doctor Kay).

Nasreen didn’t have to spend awfully long with the Holmes family to understand why they’d booked a private session without a referral to begin with. She liked William, although she could never admit this out loud (it was a little bit unprofessional after all) - he was just a sweet, sensitive, confused and misunderstood kid at heart. Her final diagnosis read: Asperger’s syndrome with acute antisocial tendencies.

She worked with them to implement a treatment plan and it seemed to work. Every Tuesday and Friday she would see him (and normally his mother, unless she was busy and it was Mr Holmes who brought him instead) for an hour and they would work together on recognising social cues and developing his speech pattern from the monotone he would slip into when he was uncomfortable or didn’t quite know what was going on, into that of a regular person. Nasreen hated the term ‘regular’ but unfortunately there wasn't another way to say it, and William didn’t seem to mind much (or didn’t notice) the possible inference that he was ‘irregular’.

Eventually, they got to a point where William could feel comfortable in most social situations. Mind you it took a solid eight months of twice weekly visits and no small measure of encouragement, but they did it. Mr and Mrs Holmes were overjoyed, so much so that they decided, as a reward, to get little William a puppy for all the progress he’d made and let him have dance lessons which he quickly grew to love. (Doctor Kareemah came into her practice one morning to find a large bouquet of flowers and an expensive bottle of wine on her desk with a little note that simply read ‘thank you’).

Sure enough, a week later, Doctor Kay got to hear all about William’s brand new Irish Red Setter puppy that he’d named Redbeard and his dance teacher who thought he had the makings of a star. The little boy delighted in talking about all the adventures he and Redbeard were planning to have and how they already stargazed together in preparation for having to navigate using only the night sky as their guide. William finally had a best friend all of his own and a way to express how he felt. Finally, his family thought, they’d gotten through the worst of it.

That was until three years later after having gone down from twice weekly sessions to biweekly ones that Redbeard was taken into the vets and given four months to live.

Things were never the same after Redbeard died.

Being a particularly precocious child anyway, William demanded that he be called by his preferred middle name of ‘Sherlock’ from that point onwards. It was as though William had been completely erased from memory; he wouldn’t respond if someone called to him using that name, ripped off all the labels in his clothes that read ‘William Holmes’, and threw away any books or papers that had William written on them anywhere - even his favourite encyclopaedia ended up in the bin.

Soon after that, Sherlock began outright refusing to go to his scheduled sessions with Doctor Kareemah and even stopped attending his dancing lessons too. Nasreen worried when the start of his brand new year of schooling began and she still hadn’t seen him. He’d be in his first year of secondary school. Sure he’d have no trouble adjusting to the increased academic pressure, but the social hierarchy would assert itself sooner rather than later and she feared he’d find himself being targeted by anyone and everyone.

Mr and Mrs Holmes called her frequently in the first weeks of term, fretting over how he was coping and filling her in on the reappearance of old symptoms; the staring off into space, speaking in a monotone, not smiling, morbid fascinations... In and amongst these came new problems too, like snapping unnecessarily at people and lashing out violently at home when they tried to talk to him. The day he was sent home for making another child cry about their parent’s divorce just because he could was when they decided to resort to the help of medication.

This time Sherlock was silent the whole way to Doctor Kareemah’s practice.

He barely spoke to her now. Whereas once he would have been relatively content to sit and answer her questions and sometimes even get to ask his own in return, now he simply sat and stared at a spot directly behind her so he could avoid direct eye contact. Nasreen suspected it made him severely uncomfortable to be sitting across from her in a newly decorated room he hadn’t been to for a year.

Sherlock was evasive when she asked him how school was going and what he did with his spare time. He avoided all her questions about his current behaviour and clammed up instantly at the mention of his eating routines (not rituals, there was nothing ritualistic about him thank you very much) - when he was little he would always have to separate his food by colour and food group before he could begin his meal, starting with carbohydrates, then working his way through the fruit and vegetables, steadily climbing the pyramid and finally finishing with fatty and sugary things at the end.

Repeatedly over the course of that first session back, she noticed that every few minutes he touched all four of his fingers to his thumb on each hand and then clenched them into loose fists before settling again with his hands clasped neatly in his lap.

They went through a couple of rounds of different medications before they settled on a course of Nardil, that contained the active ingredient phenelzine, in the hopes that a slightly more extreme route would work. He was... better, for a time. A whole two years in fact. Sherlock attended his twice weekly sessions, Tuesday’s and Friday’s, same as before; all was well. After the first few months of being on a medium sized dosage, he was able to reduce the dose to the minimum of one tablet once a day.

Sherlock didn’t tell them that he couldn’t understand his classmates any better or that he missed dancing and the freedom it brought him. He didn’t say anything about how sick he felt at the thought of eating. Would never utter a word about his awful sleeping habits. And certainly he would never tell anyone that he only ever felt alone. To them, as long as he wasn’t causing trouble and getting into fights with the people at school he was doing better. No matter that he couldn’t think straight, nor that he had no way of organising his thoughts and feelings and perceptions into a reasonable order, or that the overhead lights in the theatre where the school assemblies were held bothered him incessantly. Nope. As long as no one was getting hurt everything was ok.

Watching his brother struggle yet being powerless to do anything plagued Mycroft. He was a month away from being twenty one, already set to be the youngest newcomer in the political sector (after he’d finished university, of course) and still had only been about as useful as a rusty paperclip when it came to Sherlock. It wasn’t that he hadn’t tried; God only knows how many discussions he’d had with his parents about dear Will- Sherlock. They couldn’t seem to understand that even while he wasn’t acting out anymore or being violent towards people that he still wasn’t better, still nowhere near what he was like in the years he’d had his beloved Redbeard for company.

But still, Mycroft supposed he couldn’t blame them; in their position he couldn’t be sure that he wouldn’t have done the same. What do you do when the son you love dearly is punished by his own brain for existing? If anyone has any ideas he’d be glad to hear them.

In many ways, he thinks, Sherlock’s mind will be the greatest thing about him but in the end, it will destroy him. While Mycroft had experienced some of the problems that arise in being the most intelligent person in the room he could never claim to understand what it was like for Sherlock to live in a world distorted by the constant assault of sound, light, smells, and even touch. It must be impossible to have to contend with - and Sherlock had lived with it everyday for nearly fourteen years.

During his spare time, Mycroft did all the research he could into Sherlock’s condition. He also researched the potential development of new ones. By the end of his time at university, Mycroft had learnt all there was to know about Asperger’s syndrome, Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, Social Anxiety (in all its many forms), and an abundance of other assorted antisocial disorders including treatments for all of them. He came to the astute conclusion that, as with everything regarding his brother, this was an extremely complex brand of problem that could only be Sherlock. As such, it fit that any possible solution would be outside of the norm for these sorts of situations.

So, just before he left to move into central London for his new minor governmental position, Mycroft taught Sherlock his method of loci, more commonly known as the mind palace.

Deduction had come easily to Sherlock; he’d picked it up quickly by observing along with Mycroft when he would deduce their extended family members quietly between them to make them laugh. Sherlock’s extreme sensitivity to light and noise and movement apparently had one upside and that was the ability to eviscerate anyone he met using what he saw. He used his skills often, but the mind palace was a completely different ball game.

Building his palace was slow. Ridiculously slow. He’d reached fourteen and three fifths before it could be called ‘finished’. He used finished loosely, however, as there wasn’t actually any information attached to anything yet. It was merely the bare bones of the places most familiar to him: his home and bedroom, the school he still spent most of his time in (unfortunately), and Doctor Kareemah’s therapy room.

God, it helped him though. More than anything else ever had, (he refused to even think about the name Redbeard or the face of his teacher the first time he executed a pirouette). Sherlock was able to meander around his palace as much as he liked; he could go anywhere in it, around it, on it, through it. He could familiarise himself with the lights and the sounds and the feel of everything before he actually had to be exposed to it. Suddenly, he had a line of defence against the outside world that he’d never had before.

It was wonderful and he made it to age fifteen with no slip ups - nearly a whole five months of relative peace. No fights, no detentions, no outbursts, a little bullying but they doubted it would ever truly stop anyway and by his birthday, the family began to think that perhaps he’d outgrown his oddities and that his final year of secondary school would go by without a hitch.

Doctor Kareemah was endlessly happy with Sherlock being able to manage himself so well. She even reduced his sessions to biweekly again because he was doing so fantastically. Admittedly, he still had his fascinations - Sherlock could often be found either in the labs at school or in his bedroom bent over a microscope he’d received on his fourteenth birthday in an attempt to encourage further healthy academic interest in the world around him (no one needed to know that he’d starting stealing acid samples from the prep-room and testing which ones eroded pig hearts the quickest) - but that was ok.

Still, the problem of loneliness persisted. And he didn’t eat much. And sleep sort of eluded him. And he still wasn’t happy.

He’d done a marvellous job of alienating himself over the years. For all his intelligence, talent, and undeniable beauty, even as young as he was, it still didn’t garner him any favour with his peers. His aptitude for the violin that he’d been playing since he was small was seen as overly posh because really, what other teenager had earned a grade eight in the violin? What other teenager could tell you the chemical configuration of all the soil within a three mile radius of your school? What other teenager looked like the son of a Byronic god? I’ll give you a clue, the answer is no other teenager could do or was any of these things. Not a single one.

Mr and Mrs Holmes thought he was doomed to a life of complete solitude, so in the middle of his last year at school, when he asked if he could be allowed to go out to meet someone, they were rightfully shocked. They allowed him to go with the least amount of questions they could hold themselves to and waited for him to return that evening with bated breath.

Sherlock floated through the door at twelve minutes to six on the 22nd of February in his seventeenth year.

Gently, Mrs Holmes prodded for information and eventually discovered he’d been out to see a new student that had just arrived at his school - why someone had moved in the middle of the most important year of school she just couldn’t fathom - named Victor Trevor. He was of African descent and they’d met in Sherlock’s chemistry class after being partnered up for a practical application of the theory on neutralisation. He remained tight lipped other than that but when he came down to dinner that evening they managed to coax him into eating half a plate whereas normally he would have stopped at a third.

Mycroft saw the change immediately on a rare visit home that spring; instead of retreating to his room as quickly as possible and avoiding all eye contact with them, Sherlock stuck around for polite conversation and actually contributed from time to time. Rather than avoid all questions he answered them graciously and divulged small bits of information about Victor with a voice that glowed softly with happiness. Pride? Infatuation? Sherlock had been meeting Victor most weekends for three months and even stayed after school an hour later a couple of times a week to study with him for their exams that were now well underway. As soon as he’d taken his GCSEs, Sherlock would be free to chose any sixth form he wanted and perhaps have a fresh start away from his current secondary school. Mycroft was confident that he would choose somewhere closer to central London like he had, and set himself up properly for a successful university career. The presence of a friend wasn’t factored into the equation.

Sherlock achieved outstanding grades in every subject he took (this being possibly the only way he took after Mycroft) and in total had eleven qualifications to his name. When asked about his plans for A levels and specifically where he wanted to study them, he just shrugged and replied that he was going to stay where he was.

It was then that Mycroft was able to put all the little pieces of the puzzle together and realise that his baby brother had fallen hopelessly in love with a boy he’d only known for a few months.

Mycroft never imagined that his brother could fall in love with anybody so the fact that the object of his affections happened to be a boy wasn’t the problem; it was just that Sherlock, so naive and innocent when it came to the workings of others, would have no clue how to begin processing his newfound feelings. Not just Mycroft but their parents and extended family included, always just assumed that he would be incapable of love much less be able to recognise it and reciprocate. Generally they all thought that the antisocial tendencies would exclude love as a possibility from Sherlock’s life entirely. It would seem, though, that they were wrong.

He suggested that perhaps their parents would like to meet his friend and, surprisingly, Sherlock conceded the point. Two weeks after they’d officially broken up for the summer holidays Victor Trevor knocked on the door to the Holmes’ residence and got to meet Sherlock’s family and Mycroft’s worst fears were confirmed.

Mr and Mrs Holmes were naturally delighted to even know that he had a friend, much less meet them, that both seemed to miss the way Sherlock mooned after Victor like a puppy fawning over its master and so it was left to Mycroft (who’d made another ‘unexpected’ trip back home for this very occasion) to glance solemnly at his brother and pray that he didn’t end up too badly damaged.

Doctor Kareemah noticed it too, truthfully it would be worrying if she hadn’t, what with her being a mental health professional and all. Outwardly, she was happy for him having made a friend. In terms of his progress it was a major and extremely affirming step but the ramifications Sherlock would suffer when it went inevitably wrong would be colossal.

Nasreen wasn’t such a fool as to believe that Sherlock’s silly teenage crush would blow over in time. She knew that this boy who she was suddenly hearing about one Friday must have been special to foster such a strong emotional attachment in Sherlock. Hearing him talk about Victor made him sound for all the world like the happiest, lovestruck fool to have ever existed. Every now and again during his recollections of the week he would pause and smile slightly to himself, glossing over the fond memory as he carried on talking about the rest of his antics. It humanised him and Doctor Kareemah couldn’t bring herself to even slightly encroach on his little bubble. She could only deal with the fallout at the end.

The summer passed and everyday Sherlock ate a little bit more or smiled a little bit wider, although still not managing to sleep as much as he probably needed. On the days he was seeing Victor he woke up in a hopeful mood that left him glowing upon return.

Mr and Mrs Holmes had thankfully been caught up on the proceedings by a stoic-faced Mycroft and collectively they were pretty sure that Sherlock, at least in his mind, had indeed entered into his first relationship (although he neither confirmed nor denied these suspicions). It was the ‘in his mind’ bit that troubled them all the most.

You couldn’t have missed the honey glow in his cheeks when he talked about seeing Victor, or the way his eyes lit up at every knock on the door like he was expecting him and the flash of disappointment when it was merely the post man on his rounds. They could only hope that Victor felt the same.

Soon they were back at school, sixth form this time around, and Sherlock wouldn’t leave without casting an overly critical glance at himself in the mirror. Everyday at exactly two minutes past eight in the morning, he would stop in the hallway and scrutinise his appearance before flouncing out of the house - like clockwork.

Like Doctor Kareemah, Mr and Mrs Holmes couldn’t bring themselves to burst his bubble. It was just so liberating to see him actually happy and see him enjoy life instead of simply enduring it. Still, they were saddened to see the increasing pressure Sherlock put on himself to be perfect for Victor; the cold, analytical glare typically reserved for the lesser populous instead turned in on himself.

In many ways they were thankful for the obvious light that Victor brought to Sherlock’s world. Indeed they would have continued to sing his praises were it not for what happened at the end of their final year in compulsory education.

Sherlock came home with tear streaked cheeks and red-rimmed, blotchy eyes the day he sat his last exam.

He sobbed for hours; all Mrs Holmes could do was settle him comfortably in his bed and rub his back soothingly as silent tremors racked his slender frame, physically weaker in those few hours than he had been in two years. Carefully, she asked what happened but only caught snippets of ‘didn’t care’ and ‘leaving me’ and ‘practise for university’.

Mr and Mrs Holmes could only look on in abject misery as their son slowly shut down: stopped taking his medication, stopped talking, didn’t touch a morsel of food unless absolutely necessary, and wouldn’t sleep until exhaustion knocked him out - typically on their sofa in the mid afternoon only to be awoken scant hours later by bad dreams.

For the briefest of moments, it was like their little William had crawled out from underneath the tattered remains of Sherlock’s facade, suddenly scared and alone and confused all over again.

Rather than be angry at Victor though, Sherlock instead berated himself relentlessly for not being able to see what was going on. To him, what happened was entirely his fault for not being smart enough to just observe. He deserved to feel so terrible for being so stupid.

His eyes never quite rid themselves of the pain, though. The normally multicoloured pools of blue, green, and gold were swallowed up by the dull grey of perpetual melancholy. He carried the hurt around with him everywhere he went, weighing down his every move and sitting heavily in his chest.

Doctor Kareemah tried to help him but Sherlock refused any and all medication. He became paranoid, saying that the tablets were the reason he’d let down his guard in the first place. She wasn’t fooled; she could see that it was only because he couldn’t stand to feel any weaker than he already did that he wouldn’t accept her help.

Loneliness gnawed at him now worse than ever. He was better before Victor, so much better that it made him sick to think that he’d allowed it to get as far as it did. If only he’d looked he would have seen he was being played for a fool. The innocent, insecure little teenager with no friends blindsided by the first shred of affection shown to him gets drawn in by someone clever enough to recognise an easy target and hung out to dry after giving all of themselves over to someone who never cared about them at all. _Pathetic_.

He could take back control though, he didn’t need anyone else to wreck him when he was perfectly capable himself.

Being at university gave him the perfect opportunity to discover oblivion. Cocaine soon became the best friend he never had and the answer to every problem and the comfort after every nightmare. It was almost funny really, how quickly Sherlock forgot all about Victor and instead every thought became about his next hit.

It brought him an unstable peace, wasting away in his single dorm room, waiting for his habit to kill him so that he didn't have to exert the effort.

If he could just ignore everything and focus on finding another vein he’d be fine. Another hit and it’d all be ok. Just a little bit more this time.

He looked dreadful these days; sallow, grey skin; deep, sunken eyes; and a skinny, gaunt face devoid of all life. Sherlock more resembled a corpse rather than a living, breathing, hot-blooded human with hopes and dreams and a thirst for the world at their fingertips. It was quieter in his mind now though, the constant buzz of an information overload subsided into faint pulses of clarity in his few and far between sober moments.

By the end of the first term he’d trashed himself well and truly, stumbling around in his mind palace spouting half-formed theories on this or that totally irrelevant thing and looking for veins further down his forearm than normal. But that was ok, he was just exercising his intelligence, making sure he didn’t end up with collapsed veins too soon, everything was under control, he could stop anytime he liked.

Sherlock was due back home for Christmas that weekend so he quit and sobered up. For seventeen hours. The itchy feeling under his skin quickly became too much and drove him insane. He still maintained it was fine though; he’d do a little bit, less than usual, and keep up with that while he was back home. The stretch between the end of the first and second term would be much longer than that of the beginning so he could wean himself off ready for next time. He’d still take a good amount with him though. Just in case.

He reckoned he could easily pass off his slightly disheveled look by claiming that the stress of his studies was getting to him. It was unlikely they would question him about it anyway, as caring as they were they’d always trodden on eggshells around his emotional state. They adopted the idea that it was best not to rock the boat - lest they make it so much worse.

If he were a better man he might have felt guilty. But Sherlock was a desperate man: all he knew was desire. His self control had ebbed away into nothing, bleeding into the darkness and seeping out through the cracks so lovingly left behind by Victor. It was funny really, how quickly he became someone he'd always sworn blind he'd never become. Interesting things, emotions. Maybe he'd just stop having them. From there it followed that if he took more than his normal dosage he wouldn't feel anything. So he did.

In his old childhood bedroom, at exactly nineteen minutes passed two that morning, Sherlock took the rest of what he'd brought with him.

It was heaven and hell and everything in between; hot and cold and too much and too little and too hard and too soft and everything he'd ever wanted. 

Vaguely, he thought he must remember slipping off the tourniquet. It definitely had to have happened at some point because he wasn't wearing it then. It also must have been morning because wherever he'd woken up was incredibly bright. And cold. 

Sherlock's stay in the hospital (and subsequent transfer to the best rehabilitation facility in the country, he was assured) was painful for everyone involved. Mycroft had spent many hours sat gravely by his brother's bedside watching him sulk, or sleep, or listening to the abuse hurled his way. Mycroft's hovering was interspersed with tearful visits from Mr and Mrs Holmes where his mother would alternate between crying, apologising, and shouting while his father rubbed a comforting hand up and down her back. He was sick of it and quietly vowed that as soon as he was out he would go back and do it again, if only this time so he couldn't be interrupted. 

Mycroft brought him puzzles occasionally and would sit and read the newspaper in silence while Sherlock threatened to shove them up his arse or choke himself to death on them somehow. The newspapers always unerringly found themselves in Sherlock's hands as soon as his brother departed, though. If he was bored he'd flick through it, looking at the latest cases to stump Scotland Yard. He remembered a time when he was younger and he became obsessed with the death of Carl Powers. It was interesting and it gave him something to do; for the first time in ages he felt productive. Not quite useful, but something other than despondent.

Nothing came of it apart from idle entertainment until a month or so later - he couldn't be sure, time sort of merged together when one was stuck in a stark white room listening to insipid staff rattle on or enduring group therapy - when he decided he'd pick up the phone to let the London police force know exactly what he thought of them and to give them clear instructions as to how to catch heir latest suspect. Somehow he got through and the constable taking his call didn't hang up on him, instead listening to everything Sherlock dictated to him and writing down the parts that didn't consist of outright rudeness. 

A few days later and Mycroft was again visiting, newspaper in hand and puzzle tucked under his arm, when Sherlock caught a glimpse of the headline.

ANONYMOUS TIP BLOWS LONG-STANDING INVESTIGATION WIDE OPEN!

His stay in rehab became more bearable after that. Rather than bring him puzzles, Mycroft managed to pull cold cases from Scotland Yard's archives ( _orders from on high, sir_ ) and Sherlock would solve those instead of threatening excruciating pain upon anyone who continued to prod him any further. He still craved the oblivion his beloved brought him, but it was less insistent with the reintroduction of his medication. 

Mycroft wasn't so stupid as to believe his brother wouldn't slip up again, but at least now he knew what to look out for. There was a system in place should it ever happen again and hopefully next time around Mycroft would be spared from walking in on his baby brother passed out and blue on the floor of his childhood home. 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!
> 
> Comments and kudos give me life so please tell me what you thought! :)
> 
> [My Tumblr](https://missleeismyname.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Until next time, lovelies <3


End file.
